


Red Sky in Morning

by moonflowers



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: I don't know what else to tag, Kissing, M/M, Mentions of Blood, World War I, poor conflicted Jimmy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1390948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/pseuds/moonflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Thomas and Jimmy meet at the front.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Sky in Morning

There were some days out there, as Thomas suspected there were for countless others, that he would be happy enough to go to sleep and not wake up. Days when his usual (strong) sense of self-preservation would crumble and blow away with the east wind, leaving him feeling dull, worthless, and without purpose. Never had he dreamed that being attached to the armed forces, of all things, could lead to such a lack of motivation. But then, this was war as the history books had never seen it before, and many of his expectations had been shattered. He didn’t think he could ever go as far as to actively end his own life, though. He’d been unfortunate enough to witness it a few times; boys and men alike who couldn’t cope with the horrors they were forced into, and turned their own bayonet fixings on themselves, or ran out into no-man’s land to greet death in whatever form it took, tears leaving trails in the mud on their faces.   
Thomas thanked himself almost daily he’d had the foresight to enlist in the medical corps. It was hell, but at least he’d never had to stand to, rifle at the ready, part of a long line of tommies waiting for the whistle to send them over the top. Poor devils. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone, though he suspected there were many who’d think he would. 

Today though, none of it seemed to matter much. He’d spent nearly the last twenty four hours in a field hospital a few days march back from the front, madly tending to the seemingly endless stream of men arrived after a particularly nasty offensive. There were only so many amputations, disembowelments, bloodstains and deaths one could witness without it getting to you, even out there. It was one of the worst days he’d seen. Though, by the end of his shift things were starting to quieten down, and he barely registered the faces twisted with pain and grief anymore. He was so out of it, that he may not have thought to even wash the blood of the dead and dying from his hands if Perkins, the man taking over his shift, hadn’t prompted him to do so. 

After a hasty scrub down with limited supplies and a cup of piss poor tea from hands that refused to stop shaking, Thomas was feeling a little more human again. Though each time he went through it all, he felt a little less so. The night was clear and quiet, a calm spell between the shelling and rifle fire at the front, and Thomas didn’t really know what to do with himself. He should sleep – in a few short hours he would be back in and out of the grubby tents, checking to see who’d survived the night. The thought alone was an exhausting one. Instead, he pulled out one of his last cigarettes. The act itself didn’t bring comfort, but more the dull relief of habit, of going through the motions, a tiny thread of normality to cling to. But it wouldn’t occupy him for long. Usually he couldn’t abide the crippling boredom that came between the bloodshed of battle, but after the horrors of today… well, the boredom would suit him well enough. What he wouldn’t give for a spot of silver polishing now.  
He’d barely lit up when he heard the trudge of boots through thick mud, barked orders, and the sighs of relief that went hand in hand with setting down supply packs and heavy equipment after a long day. A company on their way to the front, perhaps? Thomas immediately decided to stay out of their way – he wasn’t good at keeping other people’s spirits up at the best of times, even if he’d cared to, never mind when they were more than likely two days march away from their deaths. What on earth could possibly be said to make it better, anyway? Nothing, that’s what.  
Thomas had just finished his cigarette and was wishing desperately for another, when he noticed someone making their way towards him from the company. He’d heard them approaching first – the thick sound of already mud-caked boots through clogged earth – before a figure emerged in the darkness. Unremarkable: a private just like any other. 

“Hello,” said the stranger with a thin smile, the type that was a formality rather than genuine. The ‘we’re in this together whether we like it or not’ smile that soldiers exchanged frequently.   
He was the sort of lad Thomas would have found attractive, if his mind hadn’t been occupied with the futility of trying to stem the flow of blood from dying men. He stamped the images that brought firmly down (he was off duty, thank you very much) and instead focused on the smudge of mud on the man’s otherwise perfect face. Or it would have been perfect, at another time, if it hadn’t been carrying the gaunt and downtrodden look of a man stuck fighting for a cause he either didn’t understand or didn’t give two straws about. Thomas had seen enough faces bearing the same look to know it when he saw it. His own face carried it too.

“Evening.”

“I was wondering if you had a light? I’ll gladly share the cig if you do.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow and held up his matches. “They must be a bloody useless lot,” he nodded in the direction of the company the man had come from, “to not have a light between them.”

“Sods, the lot of ‘em,” the lad said, lighting the cigarette, “but it’s not that. We had a bit of a run in with Jerry on the way up here and…” his mouth twisted, “we lost a few bits and pieces.” 

“…I see.” Thomas suspected it had been a great deal more than ‘a few bits and pieces,’ but knew better than to comment. It was one of the unspoken rules; find something positive to say or keep quiet, depending on who you were talking to. “How did you know I was up here?” he changed the subject, slipping the matches back into his pocket, “you couldn’t have seen me, it’s dark.”

“It’s a still night,” he said, looking up into the empty inky blue of the sky, “I could smell the smoke.” He breathed out a stream of pale smoke as if to demonstrate, before passing the cigarette to Thomas with a shrug, “ I did promise.”

Thomas took it with a nod. “Ta.”

“I’m Jimmy,” he said, the social graces that trench life more or less knocked out of you crawling back to the surface, “Jimmy Kent.” 

“Thomas Barrow,” he spoke around the cigarette, not missing the way Jimmy’s eyes flicked to his mouth as he did so. If they’d met under different circumstances, maybe…

“Pleasure,” he said, and took the offered cigarette back. 

“So,” Thomas began, falling back on the stock conversation of strangers whose paths happened to cross during this ludicrous business, “where are you from, Mr Kent?”

“Jimmy. Everyone calls me Jimmy,” he said with a smile that was largely dull, but bright around the edges with a suggestion of something that could be much more dazzling, and that Thomas guessed had broken a heart or two. “I’m a York boy, me. You?”

“Manchester. Though I live – work – not too far from York myself.” 

“Strange,” said Jimmy with his not-quite-there smile. 

“I’ve heard stranger, out here,” he took the cigarette again, and moved on to small talk topic number two. “Anyone special back at home then, Jimmy?” He’d meant it as a run-of-the-mill question; what lads had waiting for them back home made up ninety percent of the conversation, more often than not. Though judging by Jimmy’s sudden silence, it hadn’t been as safe as he’d thought. 

“I – “ Jimmy’s fingers clenched, as if wishing for the cigarette back to serve as a distraction. “No. That is, I talk to a lot of girls, but, I don’t – no.” 

Thomas smiled humourlessly. “Alright. It were only a question. Most lads out here are keen to talk about some lass or another they’ve got at home.” 

“Not me,” he said quickly, and a little sourly. 

“Nor me,” said Thomas truthfully. He had no one at home, really, romantically or otherwise. He wrote to Sarah once in a while, but that was more to stop himself losing it than anything else. 

They smoked in silence for a while, passing the cigarette with no comment, the easiness they’d had moments before diminished. Thomas felt no guilt over upsetting him; whatever problems they boy had were his own, and their paths would never cross again, most likely. Instead, he looked up to the sky. Frankly, there wasn’t much else to look at, unless you counted the veiled prettiness of the awkward man he was standing next to. He’d never spent so much time with his eyes to the clouds as he had since the war started. His upbringing, and his job, had required him to stay sharp, keep half an eye on what was going on around him. But out here, it was easier to look up at the sky – the familiar blue, the heavy grey, the red of sunrise or the cold glimmer of stars – than the chaos unfolding beneath it. 

“I should, err…” Jimmy cleared his throat and squished the cigarette end under his boot, “I should get some sleep. In a few hours we’ll be off to…” he faltered, “well, we’ll be going.”

“Right,” Thomas’ eyes flicked back in the direction of the field hospital, and his own tent. Despite his declaration, Jimmy made no move to leave. Though he was certain he’d never felt less up to the task in his life, Thomas was never one to turn down an opportunity. “I don’t suppose you want a drink?” he said, hating how unsure his own voice sounded, a laboured impression of his old self. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer but tea, and a poor excuse for it at that, but it’s hot.” 

The lad’s indecision was painfully clear. He briefly looked back in the direction where the rest of his company were starting to quieten down, then back to Thomas, chewing on his already chapped lip. “Alright.”

Thomas nodded once. “This way.”

He led Jimmy the short distance across the rutted mess that had once been a field to the small group of tents to the edge of the field hospital, serving as temporary quarters for the medics and doctors when off duty. He shared the dingy little tent with Perkins, but the other man was on duty for the next few hours, so they’d have it to themselves, unless there was an emergency. They walked in silence, and Thomas noted the tension written all over the man next to him in the grim set of his mouth and the clench of his fists. He held the tent flap aside to let Jimmy in before following. Lighting the small stub of a candle that was only really meant for emergencies, he started to hunt around in the semi-darkness for what he’d need to get the tea on. 

“Don’t – “ Jimmy started, his voice hoarse until he cleared his throat to try again, “don’t worry about the tea. That’s not why I…” he trailed off with a funny sort of jerk of his shoulders that Thomas could only just make out in the dim light, and sat heavily on the poor excuse for a cot Thomas slept in. Still, it was better than the dank dugouts near the front, and Thomas had slept in those enough times to know he ought to be thankful.  
Thomas set down the tea, and moved slowly towards where Jimmy sat; reminded, bizarrely, of the days just after he’d shut Isis in the shed – for a short time after the incident, she’d still wag her tail and jump and bark when she saw him, but was somewhat reluctant to let him touch her. She didn’t trust him. He sat down on the cot, praying it’s rusting joints wouldn’t give out, and tried to ignore the mouldering smell of the blanket. He sat close enough for it to be an invitation, if that’s what Jimmy wanted it to be, but not so close that he couldn’t back out. They sat in thick silence. Thomas wasn’t sure what Jimmy wanted, and doubted the lad was sure himself. Abruptly, Jimmy stood to blow out the candle, leaving the inside of the tent in the blue darkness of a clear night sky and a wisp of grey smoke twisting in on itself. He sat back down next to Thomas, this time close enough that their legs were touching. Thomas forced himself to keep still. 

“I – “ 

“Shh,” Jimmy quietly cut him off, “don’t say anything.”

Thomas was a little peeved that this lad he barely knew had taken it upon himself to tell Thomas to be quiet, but all irritation vanished when he felt Jimmy’s body relax a little and slump against his own, Jimmy’s head on his shoulder. His hair smelt of earth and wet grass, and probably a damn sight better than Thomas’ did. Thomas felt hyper-aware, a triumph in itself after an exhausting day up to his elbows in the physical and mental anguish of others, as he carefully placed an arm around Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy didn’t react, so when he was sure it was safe to do so, Thomas turned his body so they were chest to chest, other arm coming to rest around Jimmy’s middle to ease him closer. Jimmy acknowledged him then, tilting his chin up to look Thomas in the face; defiant and beautiful, the dim light of stars through canvas caught in his eyes. It was faces like his, Thomas thought, that for one fleeting, impossible moment, made the ridiculous mess of war bearable. 

Jimmy kissed with a desperation Thomas thought he would probably never have had, if the circumstances had not driven him to it. Though the thought was hardly flattering, he couldn’t complain. He moved his lips against Thomas’, hard and inexperienced, and like he had something to prove. Thomas couldn’t say which of them it was Jimmy was trying to prove a point to. Frankly, he didn’t care. He let his hand creep up to the back of Jimmy’s neck, fingertips in his hair. He let his tongue slide into Jimmy’s mouth through his insistent kisses, enjoying the little moan from the back of Jimmy’s throat before he surged forward again, leaning heavily into Thomas, hand scraping weakly at his chest. Thomas was about to slide his hand lower when Jimmy pulled back, breathing heavily, though he kept his arms firmly around Thomas, like he needed the support. 

“I’m not,” he started, voice trembling as though he was about to be sent over the top (which, Thomas noted grimly, he almost certainly would be, soon enough) “I’m not… _you know.”_

Thomas did know. Not one of ‘those sorts.’ Oh, the times he’d heard men hiss those words to each other in the dreary yet tension-filled gloom of the trenches. Most of them were telling the truth. It was only that they longed for closeness, just to feel the life of another next to them, to not feel the suffocating loneliness that hardly seemed possible when surrounded by so many others. They longed for something other than boredom or fear, for some outcome other than death. For some, it was a solution, albeit a temporary one. 

“That’s alright,” said Thomas, and kissed him again. 

Unexpectedly, their kisses decreased in fervency, becoming slower and more intimate, and by the time they lay on Thomas’ poor excuse for a bed, they’d stopped altogether. But almost every other inch of their bodies were touching – legs twisted, chests pressed together and arms around each other, Jimmy’s head tucked neatly under Thomas’ chin. It was the most comforting thing he’d felt in years (including the one or two quick, impersonal flings with other soldiers, relief and distraction being the aim, rather than pleasure or intimacy) the warmth of Jimmy’s body through wrinkled layers of uniform. Thomas was fairly sure this was as far as things were going to get. Just as well, he thought dryly – the horrors the past day had thrown at him had both exhausted him and knocked his sex drive (kept on a short lead as it was) out for the count. He probably couldn’t have managed it anyway. But that was alright. In the old days, he would have called a lad who climbed into bed with him only to kiss and nothing more a tease, but not now. Not here. 

They managed to sleep for an hour or so, intimately close and lulled by each other’s breathing, before there were sounds coming down the field of Jimmy’s company getting ready to set off. Thomas woke properly first, Jimmy’s restless stirring dragging him from sleep. It was still dark, probably no more than four in the morning, though regular sleep patterns were a thing of the past in the hell they’d found themselves in. Reluctant as he was, Thomas eased himself away from the warm body of the other man and out of the cot, to spare him the discomfort of doing so. 

“It’s time for me to go, isn’t it,” Jimmy spoke quietly, still facing away from him. 

“Sounds like it,” said Thomas, the clanging and shouting of the company getting ready to move out growing louder, “they’ll be missing you.” It went without saying how much trouble the lad would be in if they thought he’d made a run for it. Though that probably didn’t make the thought of the front any more appealing. 

“Right,” he said, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the cot. Thomas could see the fear and the apprehension in the set of his jaw, and in a moment of tenderness he hadn’t had since before the war, he wanted to kiss it away. 

“I would tell you it’ll be alright, but I doubt you want to hear it.” Thomas was already digging out a cigarette; he tried to limit himself to when he really needed one, and though he couldn’t quite say why, this counted as one such time. 

“You’d be right,” Jimmy said with a thin laugh, though his face was pale. “I’d best get on.” He stood, dread evident in the stoop of his shoulders and the whiteness of his knuckles as he shouldered his pack. 

“Well, best of luck to you,” Thomas said, because he had to say _something,_ and he knew Jimmy wouldn’t want his sympathy. His pity wouldn’t have been sincere anyway; his main thought was only that he was thankful it wasn’t him. He’d been at the front, of course he had, and out into no man’s land to bring back the wounded, but never had he climbed a ladder, rifle in hand, running into the mess of mud and blood and barbed wire, with the sole outcome of kill or be killed. _At least it isn’t me._ Despite his selfish thoughts, his hand twitched as his side, as though to raise it to the lad’s cheek, but he didn’t. 

“And yourself,” said Jimmy, with a tight attempt at a smile. “And,” he hesitated, looking away before mumbling, “thank you.” 

He was gone before Thomas could say anything else, not that he had much else to say. He lit his cigarette then, and went back out into the dawn. Someone was shouting a way down the field; possibly Jimmy being reprimanded for his absence. Thomas did feel a brief flare of sympathy then – a dressing down was never pleasant, war or otherwise. He smoked as the company moved further away, their trudging footsteps growing quieter, their shouts fainter. In two days’ time, they’d be at the front. In two days more, Thomas, or someone like him, would be there to scrape the remains of them out of the mud, to try and drag them back to life. His eyes were drawn to the sky again, to the fading stars and the tint of pink on the horizon, and he wished himself a million miles away from all of it, because he knew he wasn’t strong enough to take it much more.


End file.
